


The Repeated Image Of The Lover, Destroyed

by perilit



Series: Brimming May [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27150962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilit/pseuds/perilit
Summary: Bessie is dying, and then dead, and Dutch-Dutch doesn't know if he can save Hosea, this time.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Bessie Matthews/Hosea Matthews, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Series: Brimming May [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982324
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	The Repeated Image Of The Lover, Destroyed

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I really don't know how to write anything other than pain, do I?
> 
> ...At least I'm putting my writing degree and student loan debt to good use.
> 
> This was inspired by @khahoootjj's wonderful, painful, soul-crushing [art](https://twitter.com/khahoootjj/status/1304201951492493312?s=20). Thank you so much for giving me permission to use this piece as inspiration!

_I looked at the trees and didn’t know what to do._

_A box made out of leaves._

  
It was Arthur who brought back the letter. 

Hosea had sent him to the post office of the local town they were in to check the mail. Arthur had handed him the envelope from Bessie with a smirk, ducking away from Hosea’s good natured-swat at him. The older man had taken the envelope and disappeared into the tent.

Not ten minutes later, Hosea bursts out from the tent, white-faced, making a beeline for Silver Dollar.

Dutch’s stomach clenches. He stands from where he’s been sitting with Arthur by the fire, stopping the boy with a firm hand. “Stay with Susan and Annabelle, son. I need someone to watch the camp and the women. I’ll write if we’ll be gone long.” 

Arthur’s eyes are wide, but he nods. 

Dutch thanks whoever is listening that The Count’s saddlebags are still packed from their last trip, and he swings a leg over the horse, sending them galloping off in the direction Hosea had gone.

* * *

  
  


It takes a few minutes for Dutch to catch up to Hosea. The man has set a punishing pace, Silver Dollar’s eyes flickering wildly in his head. “Hosea!” Dutch shouts, pulling up beside the man.

Hosea doesn’t look at him. The muscles in his jaw are clenched tight. 

“Hosea, what in the hell is going on?” Dutch tries again, irritation sparking in his chest. Hosea doesn’t look at him, but he pulls on the reins, slowing Silver Dollar to a trot and smoothing a hand down the horse’s neck. Dutch does the same for The Count. The stallion huffs, tossing his head. 

“Bessie is…” Hosea scrubs a hand over his face, looking suddenly much older. “She’s sick, Dutch.” He turns, and Dutch feels anxiety stir in his stomach. Hosea’s face is pinched and tight, his fingers trembling around the reins. 

“What is it?” Dutch softens his voice, hoping to soothe some of the tension out of the older man. 

It seems to have some effect. Hosea turns back to the trail, but his shoulders drop from around his ears. “Doctor’s not sure. Some kind of infection.”

Dutch guides The Count closer to Hosea, close enough to reach out and take the older man’s hand. “I’m...I'm sorry.” 

“I...need to be there, Dutch, I…” 

“I understand.” And Dutch does, as much as he can. “We’d best be on our way, then.”

* * *

  
  


It’s been a week since they arrived at the homestead where Bessie was. 

Dutch does his best to look after Hosea, who refuses to leave Bessie’s side. To keep himself busy, Dutch does what he can around the house: chopping wood, fetching water for Hosea and Bessie, writing to Arthur and the women back at camp.

_My dear Tacitus:_

_Your uncle Alfred received some bad news. His wife has fallen gravely ill, and may not recover. Some kind of infection of the stomach. In turn, I am doing my part to look after them both and keep the house running. We may be here a few more weeks, depending on if things take a turn for the worse or not._

_I pray that both of them come out of this unscathed._

_Please look after your mother and sister for me, and keep an eye out for my return._

_Your loving father, Aiden_

  
  


* * *

  
  


A week passes. Bessie worsens. Her fever climbs, sending Hosea into fits of panic that threaten to lead Dutch down the same path. Bessie, ironically, remains calm, teasing Hosea weakly for his worry and thanking Dutch over and over for being there. 

  
  


It's late, and Dutch is asleep on a bedroll in the hallway when Bessie calls out for Hosea. He sits up, listening to Hosea get up from his bedroll and cross the room. Part of him feels bad for eavesdropping, but another part of him can’t shake the terrible anxiety that’s been building in his stomach for days.

“‘H’sea?”

“I’m here, my love. What’s wrong?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, my dear.”

“You...promise me, you’ll keep on goin’, when I’m gone.”

“Don’t...don’t talk like that, Bess, please-”

“You _promise_ me.”

“...I’ll try, my dear. I’ll try.”

  
  
  


There’s a horrible silence, and Dutch sits up, his back against the wall, heart thudding so strongly in his chest he thinks it might pop out. It's long enough that Dutch considers lying back down, figures that the anxiety in his stomach is wrong, that Bessie simply fell back asleep.

And then, he hears Hosea take in a sharp breath like he’s been shot in the gut, and Dutch knows, deep in the pit of his stomach. 

_She’s gone._

Dutch rises from his bedroll and pushes open the door. Hosea is bent in half, his forehead resting on Bessie’s still chest, his hand clasped in hers. He doesn’t turn at the sound of the door, doesn’t look up when Dutch comes to stand next to him. 

Dutch places a hand on Hosea’s back, and Hosea doesn’t make a sound.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Hosea had fallen asleep, eventually, head still resting on Bessie’s breast, with Dutch standing watch over them both. The sun rises, and with it, Hosea, who silently follows Dutch around the back of the house.

Hosea is quiet, as he helps Dutch dig the grave. As the hole gets deeper, his hands are shaking so badly the shovel rattles in his hands. Dutch takes it out of his fingers, gently, and Hosea lifts his head to meet his eyes. Dutch fights the urge to recoil. He doesn’t ever remember seeing Hosea look so damn _lost_. 

Dutch finishes the grave, letting Hosea lower Bessie gently into the ground. It feels wrong, lifting the dirt onto her still body, and he can’t bring himself to look at Hosea, too afraid of what he might see on the man’s face. Too afraid that it might be nothing at all.

Hosea sits on the ground for a long time after they finish, staring at the earth with an unreadable expression. His hands are trembling - they haven’t stopped since he’d arrived two weeks ago - but his face is still dry. There's a streak of dirt on his cheek. Dutch watches him for a moment, anxiety somewhat tempered by the knowledge that he’d taken away Hosea’s knives and guns when they’d arrived. 

Hosea suddenly reaches out a hand and presses it flat to the soft earth, and Dutch turns away, eyes burning. 

There might be things in the house that Hosea would want, later. 

  
  
  
  


The ride back to camp is silent and tense, Hosea stiff and strangely fragile in the saddle, like one word would be enough to snap the strings keeping him upright. Dutch keeps The Count a few paces behind, eyes glued to the older man’s back. 

Arthur is standing guard when they pull in, and he relaxes visibly at the sight of them, meeting Dutch’s eyes with a clear question burning in the blue depths.

 _Later_ , Dutch mouths, jerking his head in the direction of Hosea. Arthur nods, brow wrinkling with concern. 

Hosea slides off of Silver Dollar, not bothering to hitch the horse, and heads in the direction of the tent he shares with Dutch. His body is stiff, like a good breeze might blow him over. Susan and Annabelle look up as he passes, but neither moves to follow him.

Arthur is suddenly at Dutch’s side, pulling The Count’s reins from his hands. “Go,” he says softly. “You’re the only one he’s gonna let help him, now.” Dutch blinks, brought out of his reverie, and swings off of the horse, throwing Arthur a grateful look.

Hosea is frozen in front of the bedside table as Dutch shoulders past the canvas. As his eyes adjust to the light, Dutch’s heart breaks a little more at the framed picture of Hosea and Bessie, clutched tightly in the man’s hands as if it might float away lest he loosen his grip. 

“Hosea?” Dutch tries, tentatively, closing the gap between them and stopping just next to the other man. He’s close enough to reach out and touch Hosea, if he wanted to- close enough that he can feel the way the man’s breath hitches. “Hosea,"Dutch says again, quieter now. It’s more of a statement than a question. He needs the other man to look at him. He needs to know Hosea won’t simply crumble away in Bessie’s wake.

He can’t lose Hosea, too.

Hosea’s breath hitches again, and then he crumples to the ground, legs buckling under him.

“Shit - hey, easy, hey, I’ve got you, alright -” Dutch scrambles to catch him, getting under Hosea’s arm in time and guiding the older man to the edge of the cot with a grunt. Hosea slumps to the side, like he can’t support himself under the weight of his grief, and Dutch ends up trapping Hosea tight to him from behind, the man leaning heavily in his embrace. 

“I’ve got you.” Dutch murmurs. Hosea drags in a breath, his body trembling like a live wire. “Breathe, _lieve_ ,” Dutch says gently, and Hosea exhales in a rush, the sound almost a sob. Dutch rubs a thumb over the fabric of Hosea’s shirt soothingly, and Hosea shudders again. 

And then, Hosea _screams_.

He snaps his head back against Dutch’s shoulder, face drawn tight in a grimace as his lips stretch around the sound. Dutch flinches, holding on tighter as the man’s chest heaves, Hosea's body straining against his grip. 

It’s an inhuman sound. A part of Dutch is glad; Hosea’s grief has been silent throughout the whole ordeal, the older man clamping down on his emotions tighter than a vice and refusing to let Dutch touch him. But _god_ , with every raw, horrible cry that Hosea makes, Dutch’s heart cracks a little more. He can’t think about what it’s probably doing to Arthur, hearing Hosea in such vocal, obvious pain, about Susan and Annabelle sitting at the fire. Hosea’s fingers are white where they’re wrapped around the picture frame, his chest rising and falling more rapidly as his screams fade out. Hosea is- _panicking,_ Dutch realizes with a jolt.

Dutch presses his palm flat against Hosea’s chest, plastering the man even tighter to his chest. “Breathe for me, _schatje_ , c’mon,” he says, ignoring the way his own voice wavers slightly. “ _Breathe_ , Hosea.” 

Hosea shivers.

Dutch’s heart breaks for the hundredth time as Hosea suddenly goes slack in his grip, beginning to sob in earnest. He bows his head, teeth bared, tears dripping hot off of his cheeks to land on Dutch’s arm. Dutch hooks his chin on the man’s shoulder, holding on as Hosea purges weeks’ worth of fear and grief.

  
  


Hosea cries himself out eventually, sagging back against Dutch. It’s been long enough that the sun has lowered in the sky, throwing golden shadows against the canvas. Dutch finds Hosea’s hand and squeezes gently. “You wanna lay down?” 

Hosea doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t resist when Dutch tugs him down onto the cot. He keeps his grip on the picture frame, curling up on his side and tucking it close to his body. Dutch smooths up the blankets around him. Hosea’s voice floats up to him, worn raw and barely audible.

“What the hell am I going to do?”

Dutch swallows, his voice betraying the fear he’s tried so hard to keep tucked away. 

“I don’t know.” He pauses for a moment, the only truth he knows right now rolling off of his tongue before he can think about it. “I...I don't know. But I’ll be here while you figure it out.”

* * *

When Dutch wakes, body stiff from sleeping on a hastily-spread bedroll on the ground, he finds Hosea sprawled clumsily on the edge of camp, empty liquor bottles at his feet. 

“Hosea-” Dutch starts.

Hosea only holds up the half-empty bottle in his hand in a mocking salute, baring his teeth in an empty grin. “Reckon...reckon I might join her, soon enough.”

  
  


_What else was in the woods? A heart, closing._

**Author's Note:**

> Excerpts are taken from Richard Siken's writing.


End file.
